


Three Years With Sam Winchester (The Things We Found)

by MelWinchester (deadgirlheather)



Series: Imagines!Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive Parents, Addiction, Bipolar Disorder, Consent, Depression, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Sam Winchester, Self-Harm, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-25 15:43:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6201217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadgirlheather/pseuds/MelWinchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Year one, you're an addict. You tell yourself you're getting better, but you're not.</p><p>Year two, you're lost. You don't know how to define yourself. You don't remember who you are.</p><p>Year three, you're healing. You're not better. Maybe you'll never be better. But you're healing, you're improving, and for the first time in your life, someone is by your side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Year One (Addict)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this was supposed to be just another Imagines!Verse one-shot (with a possible second chapter if I got enough asks), but I felt that I couldn't do the story justice like that. Self-harm and depression are very personal for me, and so is Sam. So, I felt I had to go further with this fic. Hence, "Three Years With Sam Winchester." This was originally supposed to be based off of a post on allsupernaturalimagines that prompted: imagine Sam finding out you used to self-harm and comforting you about it. But, like I said, I changed. It's more "imagine Sam finding out that you self-harm, confronting you about it, and helping you rise above it.
> 
> **Please, if you're struggling with self-harm or depression, you can message me at not-so-buckets-of-crazy on tumblr. YANA <3**
> 
> ***WARNING: this contains graphic depiction of the reader's struggles with self-harm and depression***

"Y/N!" You heard Sam's voice calling from the innards of the bunker. You jerked in surprise, feeling the razor blade slicing an accidental cut on the flesh of your upper arm.  _Shit._ "Y/N, are you almost done?"

"N-Not yet!" You called weakly. "Just give me a sec, okay?" You yelled, hoping your voice sounded stronger. Sam didn't respond, so you could only imagine that he'd rolled his eyes before giving in and waiting a bit longer for you.

You really didn't deserve him, you thought. He was too kind, too patient. You took advantage of everything he was, and then of everything he wasn't. There he stood, anxious in the belly of the bunker waiting to get on and meet Castiel, while you kept him waiting just so you could slash open your own skin. There was a word for what you were, you knew, and it was selfish. You were  _selfish._

Your fingers spasming with emotion, you threw the blade in the toilet and kicked the flusher to vanish it. You had plenty more hidden in a box under your bed. It was getting dull anyway.

You met your own gaze in the mirror. You were unfamiliar, from your saddened skin to your sunken eyes. You saw only in the corner of your eye the blood trickling scarlet down your arm. Your eyes were drowning in their own pupils. You looked almost like a demon.

"Selfish, selfish," you muttered to yourself as you daubed your blood from your arm with a black towel to hide the stains. You pulled your black sleeves back down once the bleeding stopped. The cuts disappeared. The stranger in the mirror vanished. All that was left was a small girl staring back at you who looked even more unfamiliar than the stranger covered in blood.

* * *

 

"Sammy!" You cheered as he returned to the bunker library, holding two glasses and a bottle of red wine. "SAMMY COME BACK," you sang, "SAMMY COME BACK TO ME ~~"

"Y/N, you haven't even had a drink yet," laughed Sam, shaking his head. His hair danced around his face, and you smiled idly as a single gold-brown strand got caught in his scruff.

"I don't need to drink to be a star, Sam," you said, batting your eyelashes at him. He rolled his eyes, sitting down cross-legged across from you on the library floor, where you'd both amassed stacks upon stacks of books on various lore. "I can't help it if you just can't handle my star power."

"Right," he said. "Star power. So when the doctor asks me why I'm deaf in my right ear, I'll tell him, 'it was too much star power'?"

"When was the last time you actually went to a doctor," you countered, snatching a glass from his long, nimble fingers. "Hit me up, babycakes," you said, nodding your head at him like you were Joey from Friends. You saw Sam's cheeks blush a bit pink. You wiggled your eyebrows, and you extended your glass back over to him so he could pour wine into it. You didn't think about the fact that your sweater sleeve was a little short; you didn't realize that the sleeves would run up and reveal the thick web of slashed scars and lines on your inner arm.

"Since when do you call me 'babyca...'" Sam's voice trailed off when he saw your wrist. His eyes widened.

"What?" You asked. "Sam? What's wrong?"

Sam's hand shot out and latched onto your wrist. He pulled you abruptly to him, so suddenly and with such force that your body knocked the wine bottle over as you smushed up against him, squeaking in confusion. You felt the wine saturate your white skirt, and you had half a mind to yell at Sam for ruining your new clothes until you realized what exactly what was going on.

You stopped breathing when you saw Sam's fingers brushing over the harshest and ugliest of your scars. "Y/N..." he whispered.

And just like that, you felt tears welling in your eyes, spilling over the brim of your eyelids, and running down your cheeks to meet with the wine on the floor. You couldn't manage to speak, couldn't manage to explain yourself, so all you did was sit stiffly on Sam Winchester's lap as he cradled you, shaking, and murmured incessantly in your ear about how you were beautiful, and perfect, and  _strong,_ and kind, and how you didn't deserve a single one of the cuts on your skin.

You found yourself choking on your own past.

You remembered the day you'd quit. You remembered Sam calling out to you as you cut over the sink and misspeaking. You remembered him startling you into a laugh, and you remembered how that laugh-- and Sam's beautiful laugh-- had started pulling you out of the blackest abyss you'd ever known. You remembered how Sam's infectious sweet disposition had pulled you out of your own mind.

"Y/N, _Y/N,"_ choked Sam, "please tell me you aren't doing this anymore.  _Please tell me you don't cut."_

"Sam," you began. "It's really not a big deal," you insisted, as tears ran down your cheeks. "It doesn't matter. I-- I quit, like a year ago, okay? I've only relapsed a couple times, it's no big deal--"

"--Y/N--"

"-- it's fine; it doesn't mess with my hunting; I'm fine really," you said. "It's not a big deal. Just a few cuts, every now and then." You were babbling. "Sam, it's not a big--"

"Stop saying that!" Sam shouted, clutching you to his chest, puling you in so that the wine was soaking your thighs, looking very much like blood. "Stop saying that! It  _is_ a big deal, because you're perfect, and you're wonderful, and you don't need-- you shouldn't be-- 'every now and then' isn't good enough!"

"I'm not good enough?" You heard yourself shooting at him, your words hateful, your hands clutching desperately to Sam's sweater.

"No, you idiot, that's not--" Sam buried his face in your hair. "No, no.  _You're_ good enough. You're more than good enough; you're insufferably flawless. I just-- I just don't want you to be hurting like this... relapse, it  _is_ a big deal, okay? When was the last time you _marred_ yourself like this?!"

 You felt your stomach clench as you got defensive of your destructive habits, like an addict.  _Maybe you were still an addict._ "I don't have to tell you," you snarled, and you pushed back from him, falling on your ass in the wine-puddle after you teetered off of his legs. You glared at him through your hair. "It's none of your damn business, okay?" You hated the puppy dog look he was giving you. You hated the way he was acting like you were still an addict.  _You weren't still an addict._

A cut or two every now and then was fine. The five cuts on your thigh from the night before were  _no big deal._ Everything was  _fine._ You loved Sam Winchester, but he needed to  _back the fuck off_ before you lost your goddamn mind.  _Like an addict._

"It  _is_ my business!" argued Sam, who leaned forward, on all fours, advancing on you, leaning over you like he was about to kiss you.  _As if._ "Y/N, you're my best damn friend-- you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen-- you're brilliant, and vibrant, and glowing, and for you to treat yourself as any less than a queen is abominable to me, and--"

"And what?" You snapped. "It doesn't matter how you feel, Sam! It doesn't matter how you feel, because it's  _my_ wrist,  _my_ thigh--"

"Your thigh?!" Sam looked like he was about to start crying. "No, Y/N, no,  _no._ Do you even  _realize_ how easily you could cut in the wrong place and kill yourself?!"

You smiled sickly up at the boy you secretly loved, the boy who had made you quit, and you said, "that's the fun of it."

 Sam stood so quickly that you felt whiplashed. He had the most serious look on his face, a stark, suffering scowl that so strongly contrasted his usual humorous bitch face that you wondered for a moment if he'd been possessed. "No," he said, his voice low. "You know what, Y/N? I don't care if you don't think it's my business. Okay, I'm gonna  _make sure_ you never do this to yourself again."

"Sam--"

"Shut up," he said sharply, and you felt your heart freeze at his tone. "Shut up, Y/N, just shut up. You want  _fun?_ Let's get a fucking puppy, then,  _that's_ fun. Making fun of Dean because he's a midget next to me is  _fun._ Playing Russian roulette with a razor blade and your thighs isn't  _fun._ It's fucking  _terrifying."_ Sam leaned over and latched a large hand onto your thin arm, yanking you to your feet.

"Sam, what the fu--" You crashed into his body from lack of balance. You shoved back from him as best as you could with him still holding onto you like you were dangling over a massive cliff.  _Maybe you were._ "Sam,  _let go of me."_

"No fucking way," Sam said, shaking his head with a scowl. He started dragging you away from the wine spill like a child who'd done something naughty. You didn't like the feeling. With his free hand, Sam dug his cell out of his jeans pocket and tapped through it with his thumb angrily, like he had any fucking right to be angry, which he really  _didn't._ He hit the screen with considerable force and lifted the phone up to his face to speak. Your stomach sunk. He did  _not_ just--

"Dean," said Sam in a very short tone of voice. "No-- no, no one is on fire---" you heard cursing on the other side of the line. "No-- dude, no one is dying, I just--" Dean was grumbling to Sam. You couldn't hear what he was saying, but he didn't seem happy. "Well, if you let me  _speak,_ I'll fucking  _tell_ you why I called." You heard Dean say something like "okay, fine." Sam cleared his throat. "I'm taking Y/N out. I don't know how long we'll be gone. I don't know when we're coming back. She needs to take a break and I need to be with her. I'll call you when I have more of a clue about what is going on. Bye."

Sam hung up before Dean could protest. He shoved his phone back in his pocket and looked over to see you glaring at him with the blackest of looks.

"Don't give me that look," he said.

"Sorry  _dad,"_ you snapped, and you tried to jerk your arm away from Sam without success. He tightened his grip and pulled you flush against his body. You felt your skin darkening with anger. "I didn't realize that you were my dad, Sam, but I guess we're both just learning shit all over the place tonight! I'm a cutter, you're my father-- isn't this just fucking fantastic?! You know, I really fucking  _appreciate_ you deciding that I get to go on a field trip with you, dad, honestly, you're such a good fucking fath--"

"You know what, Y/N? Maybe a father is what you fucking need!" yelled Sam. You glared up at him like you'd never glared at anyone before in your life. "Maybe you  _need_ someone who doesn't put up with your self-destructive bullshit! You know, I've always noticed that you get a little more injured than Dean and I on hunts, but I figured that maybe you were just easily distractible. But that's not it, is it? You fucking do it on purpose, don't you? Because you don't fucking care about yourself!"

You knew your cheeks were bright pink and your eyes were leaking tears like a faucet dripping water. "It's none of your goddamn business!"

"YES IT IS!" shouted Sam. He was shaking with anger. _"Yes it is,_ Y/N. Who was it that saved your ass back in Michigan from that ruguru?! Who was it that took you in and cared for you because your family died?! It wasn't Dean, Y/N! And you didn't save yourself!  _I saved you."_

"I didn't fucking ask for your help!" You screamed through your tears. You kicked at Sam's legs, but all of your hits clearly meant nothing to him. Of course. You could never hit Sam hard enough to make an effect. You could never impact another living being like they impacted you. "You should've just let the damn thing kill me, you asshole! You think you're fucking saving people?!" You threw your head back and laughed darkly. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, honeypie," you snarled, lowering your head so you could glare up at him again. "You're not  _saving_ anyone, Sam," you said harshly, "You're  _breaking_ them. You think I wanted any of this?! You think I'd rather have known about all of this shit and live than fucking die and be in peace?! Don't make me fucking laugh. I can't sleep at night, because every time I close my damn eyes I see some god-forsaken creature that  _you've_ fucking introduced me to!" You shrieked. "I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't  _breathe._ And it's  _all_ _because of you."_

"So that makes your cutting my business!" Sam yelled. His grip was so tight on your arm that you were starting to question if he was ever going to let you go. "Everything about you is my business, Y/N, because _I_ brought you into this world."

You wanted to explode. "There you go again, acting like you're my fucking dad!"

"That's  _not_ what I meant," Sam glowered. He glared down at you, and you felt your spine start tingling with nervous energy. "I'm the one who brought you into this supernatural world; so it's  _my fucking job_ to make sure you survive it."

You narrowed your eyes at him. "Yeah, and when was the last time anyone around the famous Winchesters didn't die within a year?" You spat. 

Sam's eyes widened with hurt at that, and he was so stunned he let right go of your arm, taking a step back like you'd punched him in the gut.

"You know, if you want me dead so badly," you said, your voice poisonous and low, "you should just fuck me, because your girlfriends never live too long after that _."_

"Y/N--"

"Leave me alone." You whirled on your heel to go sulk in your room, but Sam was quicker than you--he'd always been-- and he blocked your way. 

"If you think you're gonna be allowed to go off and add to your collection of scars, you're out of your fucking mind," said Sam. 

Tears were ripping through your skull, bleeding from your eyes, poisoning your throat so all of your words were cracked and broken. "Leave me alone, Sam," you said, your voice thick.

"No," he said. "No, we're going into your room, and you're packing some clothes into a bag, and then you're coming with me."

Your eyes shot to the door, yearning for escape.

"You can try to run, but it's not going to go very well for you," Sam said. You glared back at him.

"You gonna wrap me up in a straightjacket? Gonna take me to a fucking mental hospital?" You accused, crossing your arms. "News flash: I'm an adult, and they can't force me to stay in there unless I killed someone or something."

Sam didn't dignify your attack with a response. He kicked your bedroom door open and gestured aggressively to your wardrobe. "Get your clothes," he said quietly.

You couldn't believe him. You couldn't believe that anyone could be so fucking interfering and bossy. You couldn't believe that you were powerless to stop him. Maybe if you could delay him until Dean got home, maybe Dean would intervene and defend you...

"If you're planning on standing there until Dean gets back, let me just tell you, we'll be long gone by the time he comes stumbling home," said Sam flatly. "So I advise that you pick out clothes for yourself before  _I_ do it."

You shrieked; you were pretty sure you hadn't said anything, you were just so angry. You stormed into the room and pulled a drawer straight out of the dresser, throwing it to the ground, watching unflinchingly as your favorite pieces of clothing flew everywhere and the solid drawer slammed into the floor. Sam moved to stop you, but you darted past him, pulling another drawer out and doing the same with it, over and over again until he finally caught you, tackling you to the floor.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" He yelled.

You crumpled against his chest. "I don't know," you sobbed. "I don't know, I don't know, I don't know..."

With your eyes squeezed shut and leaking blurry tears, you couldn't see Sam, but you could feel his hands smoothing over your back, rubbing your tense muscles until your body slumped. Sam was murmuring to you, promising you things that you couldn't hear and couldn't believe. When he lifted you back to your feet, you were numb. All you could feel was him pressing a chaste kiss to your cheekbone.

"Y/N, please let me help you," he whispered. Looking into his eyes, you couldn't say no. You couldn't speak. It was all you could do to nod your blessing and pray that Sam Winchester wouldn't let you down.


	2. Year Two (Isolated)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Year two, you're lost. You don't know how to define yourself. You don't remember who you are.

It was November. Sam Winchester was sitting at the shabby wooden table of your shared apartment, his long legs stretched out under the small table so far that his sock-footed feet stuck out the other side. He was absorbed in reading something, a book of some sort. You tried to keep yourself from turning right back around. You clutched the shaver tighter in your hand.  _I have to do this._ You took a deep breath and knocked on the doorframe.  _Sam would want me to do this._

Sam looked up, his reading glasses sliding down his nose.  _He really needs to get those fixed._ "Sammy..." you whispered, and you felt your heart cave in as you saw what he'd been reading.  _Overcoming Depression and Low Mood: A Five Areas Approach._ He fumbled to hide the cover as you approached, but you smiled sadly at him and hoped that he knew you appreciated his concern.

You couldn't remember a time before Sam. You hadn't met him all that long ago-- your parents been eaten by a ruguru only two years before--and you hadn't lived alone with him all that long either. It'd only been two months since you'd run away from the bunker, but two months alone in your head with a man waiting on you to come back out felt inexplicably like eternity. From September to November, Sam had become Sammy, and Sammy had become your everything.

"Sam, I..." You swallowed, and you held your arm out. You had to force yourself to open your hand, to unfurl your clenched fist and reveal the shaver. "Sam, I don't think I can shower with this," you whispered.

Sam instantly transformed from a flustered, puppy-eyed boy into your kingdom come just like that. His eyes sharpened and his mouth tightened into a line. You saw poetry in his irises and you knew that if he could, he would write it down in a language you could understand. "Do you want to talk about it?" Sam asked you, taking the razor from your hand, careful not to brush his skin against yours. Your eyes stung at the signs of his care. He knew that the littlest things could set you off. He knew. He always knew.

"No."

Sam's eyes held your gaze as he hesitated. "Y/N, I think that maybe... maybe we need to start talking about it," he said, his voice firm. You felt your blood thicken with choking anxiety.

 _I'm not ready to talk about it,_ you screamed to yourself. You opened your mouth to argue--to fight--to scream--to withdraw and run the hell away.

But then you saw Sam's eyes, Sam's sad eyes and thick eyelashes and pink lips and scruffy face and all you could think was that this boy only wanted you to be happy. You felt yourself falling into his being, his goodness, and something in his kindness illuminated the darkest scars and lines on your body. In his light, they no longer looked normal. They looked frightening. Frightening, and tragic, and horribly upsetting.

"Okay," you said, and your voice was breaking, and cracking, and then broken, and you couldn't say anymore, but you knew Sam Winchester had heard you. Sam Winchester had always heard you.

 _I'm not feeling well and I'm afraid I'll hurt myself in the shower if I keep this._ Sam usually held onto the razor like he could strangle the intrusive thoughts out of it if he just gripped it hard enough. Now, he didn't give it a glance, because he was absorbed by you, staring at you like you were glowing in the darkness of the poorly-lit apartment. "Okay," he said, his voice hoarse. "Okay, well... I'll be here when you're done," he said, and you closed your eyes, because you knew he would be there when you opened them again. He would always be there.

* * *

It was December. You and Sam had talked about it. You and Sam had torn open your body and poured your secrets out like guts on the kitchen table. You had cried. He had too.

You hadn't seen Dean since September. You remembered telling Sam that you couldn't face him, that you couldn't face anyone but him when you'd first been spirited away by the younger Winchester. Now, you were wondering if you should coax Sam into letting Dean visit, or at least call.

As much as you loved Sam Winchester, you wished he weren't so dead-set on keeping you from his brother. What the hell did he think was going to happen?

* * *

It was January. There was snow on the ground, and you and Sam were cuddling on the sofa. You wished that you could say you felt happy, or even content, but all you could feel was numbness, dread, and a sense that you would never achieve the recovery Sam had dreamed for you. You buried your face in his shoulder as the two of you watched a rerun of some sitcom. You wanted to ask him about Dean. But every time you opened your mouth to speak, the words dried out and your throat was immeasurably dry.

So you just stopped trying.

* * *

It was still January. Sam was out, and you were in the apartment, bundled up next to the shitty space-heater in sweatpants and a fuzzy quilt. You closed your eyes and tried to remember the exact feel of the bunker. You never thought you'd fucking miss it, but you did. You  _did._

You missed Dean, and his alcohol and pie and leather and Baby. You missed your room, although the last you'd been in it you had made a fucking mess. You missed the heat, which chugged steadily through the night and never spluttered, never woke you up as it failed and your little toes froze. You missed accidentally bumping into Castiel, who would show up at random, make strange comments, and then vanish away with the sound of wings stretching. You missed the cracks in the ceiling in your room.

And above all, you missed who Sam was when he wasn't being your orderly.

You missed joking Sam, who didn't think twice about drinking in front of you. You couldn't remember the last time you'd seen Sam with alcohol. You missed serious Sam, who would lose himself in research for a hunt and not notice when you came into a room. You couldn't remember the last time Sam had lost himself in anything but your sadness.

Sam Winchester had been your best friend since you'd woken up in the back of Baby after your family's death, since you'd leapt up so fast you'd slammed your head on Baby's roof, since you'd fumbled an earring out of your ear and wielded it in front of you like it was a suitable weapon for fending off two fully grown men.

_"Where are you taking me?" You demanded, brandishing the earring out in front of you, glaring at Sam, who had been sitting with you, watching concernedly as you moaned in your sleep._

_Dean's green eyes flashed on yours through Baby's mirror. "Listen, sweetheart," he said gruffly, "seeing as we just saved your sorry ass, maybe you should drop the tone."_

_"Dean, she's scared," Sam defended you. You looked confusedly at him, your eyes shooting away from Dean's and onto his. You were struck by how handsome both of the men were. You strained your brain to remember what exactly had happened that had caused you to wake up groggy in the back of their car._

_Did I have a three way with two FBI agents?!? you panicked. Sam and Dean had showed up at your house, you remembered that. They'd asked for your parents, and they'd shown you their badges. You'd squinted at the badges suspiciously._

_"Agent Brian and Agent Johnson?" You'd queried. "Like AC/DC?"_

_Dean Johnson had grinned. "Yeah, kind of like that, actually."_

_You liked his taste in music, you had to admit, but they seemed a little fishy to you. You were content to banter with them back and forth from the safety of your porch, but when they'd asked to come in, your 'stranger danger' alarms had sounded, and you had very rudely denied them, excused yourself, and slammed and locked the door._

_You furrowed your brow, intent on remembering after that. It was getting harder the later in the day you tried to recall. You had remembered the ruguru then, the vile monster that had devoured your family and your cat while you watched, while you were tied up and waiting to follow them down his revolting gullet. Your blood went cold as it stalked over to you. The perverted monster had stripped you of your clothes and tied you to your bed, and before it went to take a bite of your flesh, it had stroked a bloody, gore-spattered hand down your bare side. You'd tried to contain your sobs._

_Then, someone had burst through your locked door, kicking it straight down and rushing over to you. It had been Sam Brian, the FBI agent from before. Dean had been right behind him, guns blazing and prepared to torch the motherfucker while Sam flew over to you. You remembered the way Dean had sent the ruguru up in flames, and then you recalled the way Sam had looked at you as he fought to cut you from your bonds. His eyes were like teardrops, and his gaze glanced over your body with great sadness, rushing straight over your bare feminine parts as his cheeks pinkened._

_"Y/N, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he'd repeated, over and over and over. You remembered his strong hands lifting you up from the bed, carrying you from the room as Dean beat down the fiery monster, cussing and swearing and yelling. You remembered the way your head had swam, and you remembered then that the ruguru had hit your head very hard to get you to pass out so it could tie you up. You could've sworn you had seen the sky through your solid ceiling as Sam carried you through the house you'd grown up in. "Y/N, can you hear me? Y/N?! Y/N, can you hear me? I'm gonna take you somewhere safe, okay?"_

_You screamed. Sam had shoved your front door open, and the frigid air was permeating your naked body. You started shaking, shivering, cursing, and you felt you mind melting away into ice-flakes until everything had gone white..._

  _"Oh my god," you gasped in the back of the Impala. You were wearing a man's flannel and nothing else. That was the least of your worries. "Oh my God, what was that thing?!"_

_Sam and Dean had exchanged looks in the mirror. Sam let out a breath, and then he turned your world upside down._

Your world was  _still_ upside down. Throughout it all-- your madness, your sadness, your bleeding-- the supernatural had stayed prominent in your life. Living with Sam Winchester, how could it not? You hadn't just been hiding in the apartment for months; you'd been searching libraries for lore, searching stores for lore, searching to help Sam in his quest of the week. Once you'd made enough progress, you'd been able to convince Sam that he didn't need to give up hunting to babysit you all the time. He'd started out taking small jobs, day-long jobs here and there. Then they'd grown to week-long jobs when the pink had started returning to your grey cheeks. Now, he had been gone for a week, and he wouldn't be back for another one. You knew it had taken Sam a lot of faith and trust to leave you there alone. Of course, he'd locked up all the sharp objects ("I'm sorry, but I just want you to be safe"), but he had  _left_ you, and you knew that if anything were to happen to you while he was on this hunt, he'd never forgive himself. It was the only thing stopping you from going out and stealing some razors from a store.

But you weren't okay. You were lonely, and the heat had broken. You couldn't call Sam, because if he knew even the littlest thing had gone wrong, he would be back to the apartment and you would be on lockdown. You couldn't handle his fear and worry. You couldn't handle upsetting him again. But you needed comfort... you needed someone...

"Dean," you realized. You flew up from the floor, throwing the blankets down in your hurry. You ran over to the 'emergency list' that Sam had left on a Post-It next to the landline.  _My cell,_ the top number had been labeled. Below it...

_Dean._

You reached eagerly up to the landline, and before you could think about it, you punched in Dean's number. As the phone rang, you started to freak out.  _I haven't talked to Dean in three months. I haven't_ seen  _Dean in three months._

"Hullo?"

You inhaled sharply at the sound of his husky voice. Your gut tightened.  _Dean._ You heard glasses clanking and shouts in the background, and you surmised that Dean was at a bar. You were stunned to hear his voice, stunned by how much you'd missed him. Before he could hang up, you quickly spoke.

"D-Dean?" You asked, like you wouldn't have recognized his voice anywhere. "Dean, it's me."

 For almost a minute, all you could hear were the bar noises. You worried that he'd dropped the phone. Or maybe he was angry?! Maybe you'd hurt his feelings when you'd ran away? It wasn't personal, and Sam was just the one who had been there...

"Y/N?" When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. You heard the noise of him rushing out of the bar, the creaking of chairs and curses of people he shoved through. "Y/N, is that you?"

You swallowed. "Yeah," you whispered. You cleared your throat. "Yeah, it's me."

You heard Dean burst through a door, and with the sound of honking, you figured he was out in the parking lot. "Iris, where are you? Sam won't tell me-- I've been so fucking worried-- he said you're fine, but--"

The dam inside of you broke, and you felt tears fall from your eyes with alarming speed. "I'm not fine," you sobbed into the receiver. "Dean, I'm not fine. Dean, Dean,  _Dean..._ oh my God, Dean, I've missed you so much, so much. Dean, Sam is gone, he's been on a hunt for a while, and I know he's fine because he checks in, but--" Your words choked. You couldn't breathe, you were crying so hard. You bit your lip to keep from wailing. "Dean, I need you."

You heard the slamming of a car door and the noise of Baby roaring to life. "Give me an address," Dean said. "I'll be there."

You hesitated. "Dean, what if Sam finds out? I don't want--"

"Y/N, this isn't about Sam," Dean said, cutting you off. He sounded desperate. "This is about me and you. This is about me missing you and you needing me. Sam doesn't need to know; if you don't want him to know, he will  _never_ know, I promise. Just please,  _please_ tell me where you are."

 You gave him the address, and you heard him race Baby out of the parking lot of whatever bar he was in.

"I'll be there in an hour. Will you be okay until then?" He asked. You'd never heard Dean's voice so tender. "Iris, do you need to stay on the phone with me? I can keep on the phone; you won't even realize it's been an hour until I show up at your door, promise, and--"

"No, Dean, it's okay," you said, sniffling. "I really..." you laughed. "I really should shower, you know? I'm a mess. You wouldn't recognize me."

There was another silence, this one shorter. "I would always recognize you," Dean said, his voice low and serious. "Always."

You closed your eyes. "I know," you whispered. Dean gave you a moment to collect yourself, and you took it, wiping your nose on your sleeve and trying to pull the stuck hair from your cheek. "Dean, I'll see you soon. I promise I'll be okay. I'll leave the door unlocked, okay?"

"Okay."

After exchanging goodbyes, you hung up the phone. You weren't sure how you felt, other than anxious to see this man who had somehow carved a hole in your heart that you hadn't even realized was there. You walked numbly to the bathroom and the shower. You tried to hurry yourself, because you needed to Nair and wash your body and make yourself presentable. In the months since Sam had whisked you away, he had seen you at your lowest points. It was bad enough for one devastatingly handsome man to see you without makeup, tear-stained, and in a pair of grey sweatpants you'd worn for a week. You couldn't stand it if the other Winchester saw you like that.

You'd just pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a bra when you heard Dean shouting your name. You hair was wet and you were shirtless, but none of that mattered to you when you heard his voice in person.

"Dean," you breathed, and you burst out of your room, tears streaming from your eyes again. You crashed into him, your arms wrapping around his hard, muscular form. "Oh my God,  _Dean,"_ you repeated, clutching onto him like you would never let go. You were crying all over his leather jacket, but he didn't seem to care, he just repeated your name in a hushed tone like a prayer, his arms encircling you in their warmth. He pressed a strong kiss onto the top of your head. "Y/N, don't ever take yourself away from me again," he said, his voice wavering. "Don't you ever do that to me."

You couldn't speak you were shaking so hard. You could hardly believe he was there. You could hardly believe how much you'd  _missed_ him.

After several long moments, you pulled back from him. Looking at him, you could only sob and sob, because he was the most wonderful man you'd ever abandoned, and you couldn't fathom how you'd ever managed to live knowing he was worried about you. His green eyes looked fractured with sorrow, his jawline was clean-shaven and sharp, and he smelled like whiskey and leather and smoke, and all you wanted was for him to be there with you, to  _stay there_ with you.

"Dean," you cried, looking up at him with the most intense adoration. "Dean... Dean, I missed you so much, so much, so  _much..._ " You broke down into intense weeping, your body convulsing with uncontrollable sobs, and Dean ushered you over to the couch were Sam sometimes passed out after reading too much.  _Sam._ You clutched at the labels of Dean's leather jacket, forcing him down on top of you when he'd sat you down. You collapsed on your back, pulling Dean to you. You weren't thinking about what you were doing, only trying to bury yourself in this familiar man with his familiar scent and his green eyes. You sobbed against his chest as he held himself up to avoid crushing you. "Dean, Sam can't know," you said, your voice shaky. "Dean, I don't want-- I don't want him to--"

"Hey, shh, shh," Dean said, lowering his body down and shifting you a bit over, so the two of you were laying on your sides, facing each other, and Dean crushed your body against him. "Y/N, he doesn't need to know. He  _won't_ know. I know you don't want to upset him, and I know that me being here would worry him. So he won't know, okay?" You couldn't respond. "Y/N, it's gonna be okay. I promise, it's gonna be okay."

You buried your face into his chest, your tears dampening his shirt. You pressed your hands against his abdomen. "Dean, I missed you so much," you said, your voice muffled. You found yourself running your fingers up and down his chest. "I can't believe you're here; I can't believe you're  _real."_

Dean's voice rumbled against your fingers when he spoke. "I'm real," he said, his voice gravely. "I'm here. And I'm gonna stay here, Y/N. I'm gonna be here for you. Every minute Sam isn't here for you, I'll be here. I am not leaving you alone like he did."

You took a deep breath, knotting your fingers in his shirt and pulling yourself flush against his body. "It's complicated," you whispered, and you thought of Sam's golden eyes burning with concern for you. "It's complicated, Dean."

You felt Dean's body tense against you. "Is it?" he asked, and you heard anger in his voice. "Is it? Because from where I'm looking, it's pretty fucking simple."

You felt anxiety chill in your gut. "What do you mean?"

Dean fell silent. You tugged on his shirt. "Dean, what do you mean?" You pulled back to look into his green eyes, which were troubled and darkening.

He sighed. "All I mean," he said, "is that he's not treating you like a girlfriend." He clenched his jaw. "He's treating you like a child, and you're not a child. That's all."

You didn't know what to say. You felt Dean's heart pounding against you, and you knew that he was afraid of upsetting you just like Sam was. Difference is, that Dean wasn't shying away from the things that upset you. He said them, straight up, to your face. You met Dean's boiling eyes, and you reached up to touch his face to show him you weren't mad. You tried not to cry even harder. "Dean, it's not like that," you whispered. "He's worried. He's terrified for me." You closed your eyes, and you saw Sam's face gazing at you with deep panic, the look he'd given you when he'd first seen the cuts on your wrist. "He just doesn't want to trigger me."

You felt Dean's hands smooth over your wet hair and run through it. "Am I gonna trigger you?" He asked, and he sounded so undeniably hurt that your breath caught in your throat.

"No," you said, your voice weak. "No, Dean." You propped yourself up on your one arm, and you looked down at the boy who wouldn't meet your eyes. Dean's eyes were focused on the ceiling above you both, and his fingers raked through your hair with affection. "Dean, look at me. I want you here," you said, and you felt your throat tightening. "Dean, I want you here, I want you..." You let out the shakiest breath, and you leaned down to press a kiss on his cheek. "Dean," you whispered, your lips brushing his skin, "I'm not his girlfriend."

In that moment, everything snapped. Before you could even gasp, Dean had pushed you down from your perch and was on top of you, pressing burning-hot kisses against your lips. You could feel his calloused finger tips dancing across the skin of your exposed abdomen, feathering over to your sides, where he gripped you tightly and pulled you even closer to him.

"Dean," you breathed against his lips, your eyes closed, your heart racing. This is not what you'd called him for, not at all. This is not what you'd expected from him, ever. In your mind, it had always been Sam; you doted on him, adoring from afar and sometimes daring to think at night that one day you might get to kiss him. But you didn't push Sam's brother away when he kissed you, and you really,  _really_ didn't want to. What did that say about you?!

Dean groaned against your mouth, biting your bottom lip with the feverish care. "I can stop," he whispered, massaging your sides. His green eyes met yours, and you felt yourself panting, and you knew you were looking up at him with flushed cheeks and a lidded gaze. Dean looked down at you like he'd die if you told him to stop.

"Please," you gasped, as he buried his face in your neck and kissed a million little kisses all over your sensitive skin. "Please don't stop. Please don't... Dean, please don't..."

Dean didn't protest. His kiss left a taste like whiskey and sweat. You felt the taste throbbing through all your senses, and you made a high, keening sound as your head pounded. Your arms wrapped around his body, and you knew you were clinging to him, and that maybe it would bruise because your hipbones were digging into his, but you didn't care, you didn't care, you didn't  _care._ Sam could find out, Sam could walk in right then, you wouldn't care, it didn't matter...

It'd been so long since you'd been properly touched that you could hardly believe it. Oh God, it'd never felt like this before; even Dean's hands on your bare skin made you burst into flames. You were going to turn to ash before you were through. Your heart was cheap kindling, and Dean's fingers were matches, striking alive on the matchbox of your skin and searing through your body until you were positive you were glowing like a hearth.

Dean was sucking on the soft skin at the nape of your neck. His hands slid down your sides, and he pushed you down from where you clung to him just enough for him to slide a hand down the front of your sweatpants. As you were distracted by the sensation of Dean sucking on your neck, his fingers dipped into your panties.

You gasped as you felt it, like an electric blue shock straight to your core.  _"Dean."_ You felt him smirk against your neck. He pressed a teasing kiss over the spot he'd sucked sore, and he circled a finger with precision around your clit again. Your breath came out in sharp, heavy pants, and you felt your nails dig into the skin of his back. Your legs instinctively fell open, and you almost started to cry. Nothing felt good anymore, you were always sad-- but this,  _this_ felt good,  _so, so_ good, and you never wanted it to stop, because maybe Dean was all you needed, maybe--

"Baby," Dean breathed, pulling back from your neck and peppering kisses over your cheeks and the bridge of your nose as he ran his fingers up and down the length of your slit. "Y/N, please," he whispered, and then he said the words that you'd never, _ever_  imagined that Dean Winchester would say. "Let me make love to you."

You were too far gone to tease him. That sounded very chick flick to you, and you would have to remember to tell him that later, but right then--

You moaned and nodded fervently. "Dean--Dean,  _please,"_ you begged. Your face burning with shame, you spread your legs further and rutted against his hand, whimpering and on the verge of tears. "Don't ever go, I need you, Dean, I need you here, I  _need_ you--"

Dean pressed a fingertip strongly against your swollen clit and pressed his lips to yours to silence your keening pleas. His lips moved slowly and crushingly against yours, and  _God_ his lips were chapped and hell if that didn't feel amazing, and  _oh God_ he was biting your bottom lip and begging for entrance into your mouth. You'd be damned if you didn't part your lips greedily and let him in.

You felt want and need and fire pooling in your mouth, and Dean kissed you strongly, pulling his hand out of your pants and holding your face in his hands as he licked up the spit pooling in your mouth as you whined against his lips and felt as though you were being electrified. You felt like your soul was leaving your body. As Dean licked his way through your mouth, you found enough control to remove your hands from his back and instead train them to his jeans, where you sought out the zipper and fumbled to unbutton them. Dean kissed you harder as you unzipped his jeans, and to your surprise he rutted into your hand, causing your cheeks to flush even more with the lewdness of it all.  _Oh God I'm going to pass out,_ you thought. This was  _Dean._ Strong, brave, bitter Dean, and he was kissing you, and touching you, and he was now raking his fingers through your damp hair and all you could think was that you'd never thought you'd be doing this with him. All you could think was that you so badly wanted to _keep_ doing this with him.

"De, please," you begged against his mouth. "De, _please_.  _Please_ make love to me." You heard your voice, raspy and soft, almost unrecognizable. You felt the warmth of your swelling lips and you bit softly at his bottom lip, pleading. You needed human contact. You needed  _everything_ that Dean Winchester could give you, and you needed it right then. You pressed feverish kisses against his lips over and over again, setting off neon explosions in your mind that painted your eyelids electric blue with want and metaphysical ecstasy. You hadn't realized how hard you'd been gripping his bare hips until Dean kissed you back, pressing you down and pulling your sweatpants down and promising with his hands that he would give you what you needed, and so much more.

* * *

 It was the next morning. You weren't awake yet, and neither was Dean. The two of you had been up all night, skin always touching in one way or another, lips searching thirstily for the next kiss even if the last one hadn't yet ended. You'd moved to your bedroom at some point during the night, getting half-dressed in a haphazard matter to combat the cold before falling asleep even though you'd both sworn that you weren't tired.

As you slept half-dressed and sex-mussed, snuggled in tight with Dean in your bed, Sam Winchester trudged up the icy steps that led to the door of your apartment complex. He was exhausted, blood-smudged; his flannel was ripped in about six different places and he was pretty sure that the entire left side of his shoe was about to fall right off. He didn't care. He needed to get back to you as soon as possible.

He'd expected the hunt to be a lot longer. But the vampires were much younger than he'd thought, much less experienced, and not interested in conversing with him or refraining from violence. It'd pained Sam-- he still remembered the vampire Lenore, who refused to drink from humans-- but he'd been forced to kill them. He couldn't value murderous fledgling vampires over innocent human lives.

It hadn't taken Sam that long to kill the vampires. They were young. He knew what he was doing, and they didn't. Sam had been driving for hours now to get to you, panicked because you hadn't returned any of his phone calls since the previous morning.  _I can't believe I left her,_ Sam cursed at himself as he hurried through the complex, taking the stairs three at a time to reach you. Horrible images flashed through his mind: images of you broken, bleeding, red, sickly, gone.  _Gone._

Sam fumbled to unlock the apartment door. His hands were shaking. He forced himself to take a deep breath. Y/N _is fine,_ he told himself.  _Maybe she just went to bed early. She's gotten so much better. She's not quite alright yet, but she wouldn't... she would never..._

"Y/N?" Sam called out anxiously as he entered the apartment. He closed the door and locked it hurriedly behind him. When you didn't respond, his heart started pounding.  _Stay calm. Stay calm._ "Y/N!" Sam threw his bag on the floor and ran over to your bedroom. Your door was ajar, and to dispel the terrible images of you bleeding in his mind, he pushed the door open.

At first, Sam didn't comprehend what he was seeing. You weren't yet conscious, although you were rousing now, rising from sleep to return to the wakeful world. Sam blinked several times, his hand frozen on the doorknob behind him as he stared. You were in bed, wearing only a camisole with no bra and your panties. Your legs were shaved and soft-looking.  _She hasn't shaved in a long time,_ Sam thought to himself. Nothing made sense to him. You were in bed, with soft legs and breasts, and you were not alone.

You were sex-mussed and not alone in bed and lying next to you was his older brother.

As Sam stared uncomprehendingly at the peculiar scene before him, you let out a high-pitched breath like a sigh and nuzzled your face once against Dean's t-shirted chest before letting your eyes flutter open.

It took you a second to see him. He wasn't supposed to be home, after all, for a while. For days. Sam watched helplessly as you rubbed at your eyes and sat up. You'd just started to stretch when you saw him.

Your jaw dropped. You face turned to a lovely pink as you realized what exactly he'd walked in on, and you instinctively reached over and nudged Dean's arm. You couldn't take your eyes from Sam's. He saw the panicked, doe look in your wide eyes, but he couldn't remember any words to dispel it. Sam couldn't remember much of anything other than the fact that you'd both agreed that you would stay away from Dean Winchester while you recovered.

And  _this was why._

Dean woke up much quicker than Iris, to Sam's surprise. You had a death grip on his arm, and he frowned as he woke up, his eyes immediately scanning the room for a threat. Whether he classified his younger brother as a threat was unclear, because when he saw Sam there, he froze.

For a moment, the three of you were suspended in time. Nobody moved, and nobody spoke. The only movement Sam could sense was the rapid rise and fall of your chest as you started to have a panic attack.

"Sammy," you whispered, breaking the silence with a broken word and a cracked voice. You immediately started sobbing. "Sam, don't be mad; Sam, please don't be mad at me; Sam, please, _please_ don't be mad at me, I can't take-- I can't take it-- please don't be mad at me, Sammy, Sammy..."

You fell into a fit of uncontrollable sobs, and Sam made a brief, harsh eye contact with Dean that promised a fight later, and later only. He wouldn't hit his brother in front of you, not while you were like this, not while you bawled like a child after their first encounter with the monsters under the bed. Sam was furious, of course. How long had this been going on? Had you been doing this while he'd been on hunts the entire time? He had been so  _worried_ about you, and you were having sex with his brother?! He told himself that he didn't care, and that you were a grown adult and were therefore allowed to sleep with whoever you wanted to sleep with. But Sam  _did_ care. For one thing, you weren't in the right place to be engaging in a sexual relationship with anybody-- your uncontrollable crying proved that. For another thing...

_Dean?!_

Sam swallowed the acid pooling in the back of his throat. He could feel the betrayal setting in, but he knew that the situation was messy, and he didn't want to mess it further. So instead of shouting, he burst into comforting murmurs, coming to your side, putting a hand on your arm and then gently and lovingly rubbing your warm back as you fell into him, covering your face and shaking with tears. Dean stood, uncertain, half-dressed with a look of pure devastation on his face as he watched you. Sam ignored his brother, for he felt that if he didn't, he would break you irrevocably.

Sam cradled you in his arms and held you as you wept. "Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," you repeated, your voice small and your shaky hands balling his flannel in your fists. You kept on, saying his name like a litany, like a prayer, like an act of contrition. Sam didn't stop you, and as he listened to his name through your lips, all he could think was that he had completely and utterly failed you.

* * *

It was February. You didn't know where Dean had gone that day after he'd fought Sammy outside of the complex. You knew they wouldn't have wanted you to, but you'd watched from the window, hiding behind the curtains, as they went at each other. You could see them shouting. You could see them drawing blood. You could see the fight, the pain, the hatred. And all you could think was that you had completely and utterly failed them.

* * *

It was March. Winter refused to leave. The ground was still frozen, and it felt to you that maybe it would always be.

* * *

It was June. Or July. Or September?

Nothing was distinguishable to you anymore. Nothing felt real. You weren't sad any longer, but you weren't anything. You were numb. At a loss, Sam had signed you up for therapy. The therapist had gently suggested you admit yourself into a mental institution.

Sam had just barely managed to convince her not to press charges after you'd thrown her against a wall and threatened to kill her.

_You weren't crazy._

* * *

It was August. You weren't crazy. But as you looked out of a barred window and into a cemented courtyard, you couldn't imagine why not. Why were you there, then? How had you gotten yourself into that place? You couldn't remember most days. You couldn't remember the day you'd run away from the apartment and had gone to the emergency care unit and told the secretary you were going to kill yourself to feel something. You couldn't remember the day that you'd surrendered yourself to this, and you certainly couldn't remember the way you'd refused to answer the desperate phone calls that both Sam and Dean Winchester had made to you on the hospital line for your first week.

"You can talk for fifteen minutes a day, if you'd like," the nurse had told you as she held the receiver out.

You couldn't remember walking away.

* * *

It was November again. You emerged from the hospital with greyed skin and dull hair. You heart fluttered like a caged bird inside of your ribcage. The cold air crackled against your summer clothes. You hadn't planned on staying so long. You had barely made it ten steps out of the door when two men had starting sprinting towards you. You froze, afraid, even though you could recognize the boys from miles away. They would be mad, you just knew it. They would hate you. They were coming to yell at you and tell you that they never wanted to see you again. They were running because they couldn't stand to live another moment without telling you how selfish you were.

The boys collided with you, encompassing you in a cage of warm, strong arms and apologies. You forgot to breathe.  _I'm so sorry,_ Sam Winchester said. Y/N _, don't ever do that to us again,_ Dean Winchester said. Y/N _, we love you._

You closed your eyes and relaxed into the brothers as you saw for the first time that you really weren't crazy.

 _You were loved._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this was so emotional. At least, it was emotional for me. I haven't the foggiest idea why I'm fucking crying. If you know why, fucking hit me up.
> 
> Thank you guys for the sweet comments. I love you all. You're not alone, lovelies. You are loved.


	3. Year Three (Healing)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Year three, you're healing. You're not better. Maybe you'll never be better. But you're healing, you're improving, and for the first time in your life, someone is by your side.

"I don't understand."

"Yeah? Well there's a lot you don't understand."

Of all the things that they taught you in therapy, how to explain yourself was not one of them.

* * *

First of all, the fact that your sickness was in your head didn't make it any less of a sickness. And the fact that you were causing yourself harm didn't mean that you were causing yourself harm for the hell of it. And the fact that you liked it didn't mean you didn't know you shouldn't...

There was no way to tell the Winchesters that and have it make sense. This, you were quickly learning, as you sat across the table from Sam and Dean in the bunker, staring blankly. What were you supposed to say?

Every time you looked at Sam, you saw the year you had taken from his life. And every time you looked at Dean, you remembered heat and hands and sex.

"Say something, Y/N," Sam said softly as you all stared at the razor on the kitchen table.

You swallowed, tears threatening to spill from your eyes with a cruel sting. You'd only been back from the mental hospital for a week. And you'd already fucked it all up.

"I just--" Your voice caught.  _God damn it, damn it, damn it._ "I just think-- I think you two would be better off if I left," you stuttered, sobs breaking out of your chest now. "I just think I sh-should go."

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut off by Dean, whose gruff voice was loud enough to make you curl into yourself.

"God  _damn_ it, Y/N, where did you even find this?" He demanded. You cringed, bringing your legs up to your chest and hiding your head between your knees.  _Please don't yell, please don't yell, please don't be like him, not you not you not you--_

"Like who?" Dean's voice was still demanding, but much quieter now. You were shaking. You'd said that out loud? " _Damn_ it, Y/N, like who?!"

"Her father," whispered Sam. Your head shot up, your heart seizing in fear as you gaped at him in horror. How had he known? You'd kept that secret so close to your chest that it had infected your heart, turned it black and raw, hurt you every time you moved. 

_You didn't know what you'd been expecting. It wasn't like this had never happened before. You told yourself over and over that this time it wouldn't get to you, you wouldn't let it get to you, you wouldn't. But you still shook as you saw the text message and felt tears sting in your eyes. **Damn it.**_

_[What the fuck? Ten in the morning, still asleep. Dishes in the sink. I do all the work in this house, and this is what I get? I'm sick of your ungrateful ass. It's practically abuse. No wonder no one wants to be your friend, you're a goddamn miserable bitch. That house better be spotless by the time I get home.]_

_You couldn't move for several good minutes as your heart seized up in your chest, stammering and chilling and twitching. Panic, panic, panic was washing over you, drowning you. Without understanding, you stared at your phone clock. Ten o clock. Ten o clock. What the fuck? And your alarm said it was going off, but no noise was coming out... you thought you'd set it, and you had, why wasn't it making noise,_   ** _why wasn't it making noise_.**

 _You heard a tiny sob come out of your mouth and clapped a hand over your lips. The last thing you needed right now was for your mother to hear you crying. You forced yourself to your feet, hand still over your mouth, heart still painful. You dropped the phone numbly back onto your carpet._   ** _You're a goddamn miserable bitch_.** _You could just hear his voice._

**_Stop it, Y/N. Stop it. You did nothing wrong._ **

_But it didn't **feel**  like you'd done nothing wrong. It felt like the apocalypse was coming, and it was all your damn fault, because you were a lazy piece of shit who didn't appreciate all the work your father did for you._

_You traveled to the bathroom to brush your teeth, trying not to throw up. It'd been the same song and dance as long as you can remember. Yelling and fighting-- so much yelling and fighting. You couldn't remember a time before the yelling and fighting. You and your father, you and your mother, your father and your mother. You against your father and mother._

_You locked the bathroom door behind you and turned on the sink. There, with the cover of the faucet water, you allowed yourself to sniffle._   ** _You're better than this, you're so much better than this, don't cry, don't cry--_**

_"Y/N? Are you getting ready? Your father left a list of chores for you on the table." Your mother's voice was just outside the bathroom door._

_And you broke. What else were you supposed to do? A sob ripped itself from your throat. Fear racing in your heart, you passed it off as a cough, saying, "Okay, thanks, I'll be right out" in a tight voice._

_There was a pause. You were biting into your arm to keep your sobs from being heard. "Y/N. Are you okay?"_

_Like she actually fucking cared. You took your teeth off your arm long enough to say, "Yeah, why?"_

_You heard your mother shuffle outside of the bathroom door. "You just sounded... nevermind. Come out here soon. Don't waste your time in there."_

_With that, you heard her walk away, and you shook your head, tears brimming in your eyes. How dare she? How dare she tell you not to waste your time, when all she did all day was watch TV and be on her phone? How dare she ask if you were okay, when all she really cared about was you **pretending** you were okay? Every time you'd gone to her with a problem, she'd yelled at you. Always. So what the fuck was she expecting when she asked that question? Your arm could be falling off and you'd say, I'm fine. That's what you were taught to do._

_You shut down as you brushed your teeth and pulled back your hair. You had to be anywhere else but there. So you did what you'd done since you were little, you ran. Ran away from it, into your mind, into fantasy worlds from books and tv shows, where you could pretend you were loved and accepted. And hell, if your parents had a problem with that-- fuck you, who do you think had taught you to run away in the first place?_

_"Y/N!" Your mother was back, less happy this time. "What the hell is taking so long in there?" Before you could answer, she was carrying on. "You always make everybody else wait on you, it's so fucking rude. You're not the center of the universe."_

_"I-- I don't think I'm the center of the universe," you mumbled as you shut the faucet off. "I just--"_

_"You just think you know everything. I know." You'd gotten this cold, jagged voice from your mother before thousands of times, so why did it still stab you so brutally?_

_"I'm sorry," you mumbled. You opened the door, and she was waiting, scowl on her face and her hands on her hips. She turned and walked away, ignoring you. And she kept it up for hours and hours-- until your dad came home. Then, the yelling and fighting picked back up again. It felt to you like it'd never left._

And now you really were crying. Crying in front of the Winchesters; sobbing, actually, your shoulders shaking and your heart aching and screaming. You couldn't look at them, you looked up, up at the ceiling, thinking that if God really had any mercy he would strike you down in that instant and relieve these poor brothers of your burden. You waited and waited and waited, but you didn't die. Of course. When had God ever had mercy on the Winchesters in the past?

"How did you know?" You heard your voice ask. You could've sworn you hadn't moved your lips.

Sam didn't answer immediately. In fact, it took him long enough that you lowered your gaze from the ceiling, your eyes meeting his as you tried not to grimace. He looked afraid. Like one wrong word would break you.

You don't think anyone but the Winchesters had ever cared about their words breaking you.

"You're terrified of men," Sam said quietly. "You didn't let us touch you for the first two years we knew you. You wouldn't look me in the eye for the first three. You've never had a boyfriend, or a girlfriend, or any type of significant other-- you're afraid of relationships. You're an excellent hunter and a tough girl capable of taking care of herself, but every time a guy hits on you at the bar or gets aggressive in any way, you shut down and make yourself small. Yet you seem to be interested exclusively in men who are older than you-- I've never seen you show interest in anyone that wasn't at least ten years your senior." Your face was red, and you had to look away. "Y/N, honey, what else is that going to spell out?"

You didn't say anything.

Dean's voice returned to the conversation, low and dangerous. "Did he touch you?" He asked, and you heard the quiver in his words. "Because I'll sell my soul to bring him back just so I can kill him again. I swear I will."

You shook your head. No, no, no-- he hadn't touched you. Your grandfather on the other hand, he'd groped you... but your mother had said not to tell anyone... it was your fault if your dad reacted irrationally and hurt someone... You shook your head again.

"Did he hit you?" Dean was clearly trying to keep his voice quieter, so he didn't scare you, but you were already too far gone. You shook your head again. God, you remembered praying to God that he would, that your mother would, so you could show somebody and they could help you. Because the government only helps the kinds of abuse that bleed.

Because maybe the only kinds of abuse were the ones that bled. Because maybe your father had always been right, your mother had always been right, you were spoiled, selfish, delusional, abusive, manipulative, cruel, self-absorbed, ungrateful--

 _"No,_ Y/N." Now Dean sounded like he was going to cry. "You're not-- damn it, you're none of those things, you're--" He was so frustrated and horrified he had no idea what to say. What was wrong with you? You hadn't meant to say that out loud either. Were you that desperate for attention that you had to say all your thoughts out loud?

"Y/N, you're the most selfless person we know," Sam said insistently, catching your eye. You looked away from him. You couldn't stand to see him lie like that. "Y/N, look at me. Look at me."

"Don't you ever think that about yourself," Dean said. "Don't you dare. You're none of those things,  _none of them_. And you're not desperate for attention, but you  _need_ attention right now, because keeping all this to yourself is killing you, and you need someone to help you." You cried even harder at that. "Please let us help you."

"I shouldn't have ever cut on my wrists," was all you could say, your voice marred with ugly tears. You shook your head bitterly. "I used to cut on my thighs-- they couldn't see them then, you know? They would've locked me in an institution if they knew. But once they died..." You could feel nothing but self-loathing. "It's not like I ran out of skin on my goddamn thighs. Not like my skin never healed. But  _no_. People see cuts on your wrists, people see and people notice and I'm such an attention whore and--"

"Stop," Sam said. "Y/N, stop. First of all, you've worn long-sleeved t-shirts almost since the day we met you. And then-- Jesus, do you not remember when I saw your cuts? Because I do. You were  _horrified_. God, Y/N, I know I'm not the most perceptive person alive, but I know you didn't want me to see them. I  _know_ that. And even if you did, even if you meant for me to see them-- I'm glad either way, because  _you might not be here if I hadn't."_

Every fibre of your being wanted to argue with him. Needed to argue with him. Needed to push him away, because you didn't know how to deal with someone loving you, accepting you, validating you. But you'd made the mistake of looking at him-- looking at him and Dean. And you couldn't ever unsee the looks on their faces... the concern, the fear, the empathy, the  _love_. 

You closed your eyes. "I'm trying, I swear." Your voice cracked. "I'm trying to get better, but-- but I fucked it all up, and I might as well have never gone to the hospital at all."

"That's not true," said Dean forcefully. "Almost everyone relapses when they try to quit something. That doesn't mean they're not going to quit it, and it doesn't mean they're not going to get better."

"Y/N, I don't know what your parents told you, but they hurt you," Sam said, "and I can never forgive them for that. You're allowed to not be okay. You're allowed to ask for help. And most of all, you're allowed to be loved. You're allowed to be happy."

And you broke. But this time, it was in all the right ways. And when you put yourself back together, you wouldn't be alone. Not then, not ever again.

* * *

"I don't understand," you saw your reflection whispering in the mirror. It was a sad reflection, an echo. A wound you were finally going to heal.

"Yeah?" You put your fingertips to the glass with melancholy care. You wanted to protect that girl in the mirror. You wanted her to be okay. "Well..." But she didn't want that for herself, did she? She was so much younger. She hadn't met the Winchesters yet.

You smiled at her. "There's a lot you don't understand," you murmured.

Of all the things you'd found over the years, you were your favorite one. 


End file.
